Impressions
by printandpolish
Summary: In response to a writing prompt: How might a stranger see the boys of the book? This is how one of Pony's classmates might view him. Oneshot.


_This was written in response to a challenge issued by Tensleep, to write about how a stranger might view the boys of 'The Outsiders. This narrator is not quite a stranger, but I think she fits the rule. You guys will have to let me know. _

_For those of you nice enough to be wondering about "When I Grow Up," I fear that story is on permanent hiatus ... the muse is silent and I've had other work going on. I'm not giving up, but I'm also not holding my breath. :-)_

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**Impressions**

I put down my books and slump on my stool – as far as I could slump, anyway, without giving the boys a view clear up my skirt. I don't mind school so much, as a rule, but I hate biology. It's all disgusting and useless. I'm going to be a secretary. It makes no difference to me what frogs and worms do in their spare time.

As my classmates file in, Janet comes up to me, practically purring. "So guess what?"

"What?"

"That boy that Dottie likes? That Randy Adderson?" She leans forward. "He's supposed to be seeing that Marcia girl, right? But Marcia's friend Betty told Donna that Marcia might break up with him."

She smiles smugly. I roll my eyes. It's hard to keep up. Dottie likes every boy – every Soc boy, that is. A Soc boy is from the nicer part of town – they're on the football team and have money and some of them even have their own cars. There was a bunch in our biology class, always raising heck and acting like they were better than everyone else. I know the greasers – the poorer kids – think I'm one, too, but I sure think I don't act like them. Least I certainly hope not.

"Do you want to go to the Nightly Double on Friday?" Janet asks. "Dottie said she wanted to see if we could bump into that Randy."

Janet is a plain girl, kind of plump, and she doesn't get many dates. She thinks it's because she's fat. I think it's because she's always talking about everyone else. Sometimes Donna will say, "Telephone, telegraph, tell-a-Janet" because really, you can't tell her anything you don't want the whole school to know.

This is exactly why I've never spoken to her about Ponyboy Curtis, who sits next to me and may just be the sweetest boy I know. For someone who complains everyone judges her by her appearance, Janet still does the same to everyone else.

Pony lopes into the room just then, as if I've summoned him, even though the bell is about to ring. Janet watches me watch him and hisses at me, "He's a common hoodlum. I don't know why they let him in this class."

"He gets better grades than you do," I say. He's smart – he's a year younger than the rest of us because he got put up a grade. I can't help but be impressed with that.

"You quit makin' eyes at him," she warns. "He'll get the wrong idea."

I startle. _Makin' eyes? Am I?_

"He ain't even the best lookin' one," Janet finishes as she goes to her own stool. "If you wanna be all sweet on a hood, at least pick the dreamy one. His brother, down at the DX --"

I wave her away as Pony takes his seat next to me and glances my way. I take a deep breath and speak calmly, as if the sight of him doesn't make my heart pound.

"Good morning, Ponyboy," I say.

"'lo, Carol." A slow flush creeps up his neck. I watch as he carefully opens his notebook and finds his pencil. "How – how are you?"

"Very well, thank you for inquiring," I answer. I'm trying to practice using bigger words. I think it sounds more ladylike and more grown up.

For a minute I think I've overdone it and came off as snooty and snobbish, but then I see a small smile cross his face. "Why, that's fine," he responds.

Pony is a nice boy, no matter what Janet and Donna say. I know he scares all my girlfriends – even Dottie, who's completely boy-crazy – but I still like him. He doesn't dress very well and he doesn't say very much and he's got that awful funny name, but he doesn't cause trouble in class and he minds his manners. That's more than I can say for that Randy Adderson that Dottie likes.

And I know Janet thinks I'm silly, but between you and me, I really think Ponyboy's kind of dreamy himself. He has terrific eyes – they're this dark green color, nearly gray. And he has long brown hair that's almost red, squared off in the back but shaggy in the front and sides. I wonder what it might be like to run my hands through it, if'n it didn't have all that grease in it. Sometimes, when Mr. Labree is going on and on about the life cycles of toads (blech), I peek at him out of the corner of my eye.

I feel my cheeks get red at the thought of it. I can feel Ponyboy stealing little looks at me and I pretend to look for something in my purse.

I think he likes me.

I didn't know Pony before school started, but I knew who he was – he was the orphan boy. About six months back, his parents were killed in a car accident. It was in all the papers. It was a horrible thing – his daddy was taking his mama somewhere when somebody ran a light and drove right into them. I heard they died right away, not even enough time for Pony and his brothers to say goodbye.

Now Ponyboy's oldest brother, whose name is Danny or something like that, is in charge of him and his brother Sodapop (who is very handsome, like Janet says) dropped out of school to take a job. Sometimes I think it might be tuff to be able to make your own rules, not have to worry about your parents butting into your life every second, but I think I'd miss my mama.

"Today, class, we're going to dissect a worm," Mr. Labree announces. There's a mix of reaction – the boys hoot, the girls moan, and Ponyboy just looks at his textbook. "Choose a partner and come get a tray."

Ponyboy looks at me shyly. "Would you want --" he starts, when David Drake, sitting two seats over, interrupts him.

"She thinks you're trash, grease, she ain't gonna pair up with you," he sneers. "Carol, come on over here."

Ponyboy gives this little gasp and I fix David with the most withering stare I can manage. "She thinks no such thing," I say frostily. "Of course I'll be your partner, Ponyboy."

He stands up and goes to the front of the room to get our worm tray as the boys behind me laugh at David. He's not a thug. He's a poor boy with some bad breaks, but he's not a thug. The north side has some rough neighborhoods, and I know some of the boys in Pony's gang have actually been in the slammer, but he's been nothing but sweet to me.

He returns and sets the tray between us. A big, fat, dead worm sits on the wax and I look at it woefully, feeing my stomach turn over.

"I'll do it, if you want," he says gently. "You can take notes."

"Okay."

I bend to fish a pen out of my purse. As I straighten up, I hear Janet gasp. I look at her, but she's looking past me – and so is David, and Donna, and all the other kids, and then David snickers.

I turn. Ponyboy has a knife. A real, honest-to-God switchblade. He flicks it open with a practiced motion and slices through the worm.

I'm shocked to have been so wrong. He's a poor boy, yes, sweet – but he carries a knife? That's what criminals do, right – carry weapons. He carries a knife to school. For what reason, I cannot imagine. For protection? I know the Soc boys aren't nice to the greaser boys, but they wouldn't really attack them. Then why would he need to keep it on him? Why does he even have it?

"The razor wouldn't cut," he starts, but his smile fades as he sees the look on my face. "Carol? Are you all right?"

I back away so quickly my elbow hits the dissection pan. Its contents fly upward and stain my yellow blouse as Ponyboy's face turns crimson.

"They are right," I gasp. "You are a hood."

**The End**


End file.
